What The Water Gave
by blood-junky
Summary: Civil strife and death. Warm hearths and mead. Devilish bites taken from a hostile landscape that left jagged rocks jutting out like teeth in a mouth made to devour. This was Hadvar's home as he had always known it: beautiful and contradictory, icy elegance that persisted with the spilling blood. And in the midst of battle, he would fall in love with the woman who embodied it all.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Ice, jagged rock, untamed wilderness: the savage, beautiful features of a savage, beautiful land. A sky pregnant with grey clouds births a flurry of snowflakes that fall upon three hooded heads. The faces beneath bear lines prematurely carved by the blade of hardship, and which have now deepened with familial worry.

A tanned, calloused hand sweeps a hood back and its owner gazes skyward. These icy, bold firs, while not unlike those of her island home in appearance, she concedes, so lack the essence as to not bear any resemblance to them at all. These trees appear almost beastly: looming overhead with their needly appendages reaching out like thieves, and she frowns. The woman bows her head once more and tugs her cloak more securely around herself: more for comfort than to keep out the chill, to which her heritage and upbringing have assured she has a natural resistance. The icy flakes drifting from above rouses an even deeper homesickness within her for that lonely weather-beaten island a lifetime away.

But they have successfully crossed the border, however illegally, having picked their way through the mountains separating the two provinces several hours before. And that should be all that is important at this very moment in time, for the sooner they find him, dead or alive, the sooner they can leave this unfamiliar, unforgiving place behind.

The Breton man leading the trio seems to sense the grief pooling within the bellies of his companions, and he suddenly gestures about as if to distract them from their shared despair by silently introducing them to their ancestral homeland. The very implication makes the woman's stomach churn, and a glance toward her grimacing kinsman tells her the feeling is mutual.

She does not like this place, ancestors be damned. She does not like the way the rocks seem to have a demonic bite taken from them, how the trees loom like overseers, with those greedy, outstretched arms that seem so desperate to reach out and grab them...

They hear voices and halt their march within a clearing. Footsteps crunch in the snow, whispers carry among the rocks on either side. A man in a blue tunic darts past them, and then the greedy hands in question shoot forward and grasp the woman by her cloak. She is torn from her horse, hitting the cold, hard ground with enough force to knock the breath out of her lungs. An Imperial soldier manhandles her to her knees as she gasps for air, using her momentary disorientation to bind her hands in front of her. She calls out to her companions: Hargar, Mael. Her kinsman is in a similar position, with a blackened eye to show for his own struggle, and Mael has managed to elude capture and is rounding the area on his steed. Panic lines his face, and he makes eye contact with his companions in a silent plea for an impromptu plan. The woman shakes her head, and she is wrenched to her feet and led to a cart at the edge of the clearing.

"Mael," she cries. "Mael, go ahead! Find what you can about what's happened. Find Melbrigda!"

Mael opens his mouth to respond, but there are soldiers making their way towards him. With a final glance back at his captured companions, he rears his horse and darts away into the snowy mist.

They are thrown into a cart with three other captives. The woman locks eyes with Hargar beside her, who shakes his head. Something tells her that they aren't going to be able to talk their way out of this one.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Sun had emerged this morning, shining through the grey clouds that had earlier delivered a fresh new sheet of snow and thus parted. Hadvar, though, had barely enough time to admire it as he exited the barracks before a plank of wood was slapped harshly against his chest.

"Hadvar," the Imperial Captain said, "We're taking you off patrol today. You're doing the ledger."

Hadvar fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Isn't that Octavius's duty?" The Captain sniffed and let the board fall, forcing Hadvar to scramble to catch it.

"Well observed, soldier," she sneered. "You never cease to amaze me. Octavius has been relocated for the time being, and that's all you need to know. I want you in the court-yard in half an hour: we've got some more Stormcloak scum to put down this morning. Ulfric Stormcloak is one of them."

Hadvar nodded, tucking the ledger under an arm as the Captain turned and made her way out. He smiled bitterly.

"It's a bit early in the morning for a beheading, though, don't you think?" The Captain continued towards the door, but Hadvar heard her laugh quietly:

"It is never too early for an execution, soldier."

* * *

Half an hour later, Hadvar stood beside the Captain in the court-yard, mindlessly twiddling his quill-pen whilst they waited for the carts delivering the captives in line for immediate execution. Something about it struck him as unjust in the back of his mind: that his brethren, though traitors they may indeed be, would not even be offered a trial before being sent to the block. But these were dark times, if ever there were bright days in the two-hundred years that followed the end of the Oblivion crisis, and the benefit of the doubt was not an affordable option. Anyone and everyone was a potential threat to the security of the nation and its ties to the Empire; the more suspects they eliminated in this manner, the better off they would all be in the end.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Soon, the guards patrolling the gates sent word that the carriages had arrived, and the lethargic activity of the village dwellers livened considerably. Hadvar watched as children were escorted indoors and civilians, soldiers, and shop owners gathered around the court-yard to witness the proceedings. He sighed inwardly: something was definitely wrong when people began to look at public executions as a source of entertainment, but, as was the case with most things that made Hadvar uncomfortable, he opted not to examine it too closely.

The gates opened and Hadvar could hear the two old carts creaking beneath the combined weight of their passengers. The prisoners were met with murmurs, hisses, and curses as they were driven into the yard where the executions would take place. Some villagers lamented the inevitable bloodshed and could be seen silently praying for the Gods to be merciful upon the souls of the condemned. Others appeared to be relishing the impending carnage.

When the carts finally pulled into the yard Hadvar took a moment to observe the faces of his doomed brethren. Stormcloaks, without a doubt: the tunics and armour (however tattered) and the bloodshot, glaring eyes were enough of an indication. He tried to feel pity, but found he had none to offer, for their faces showed no trace of remorse for their wrongdoings. Traitors indeed.

He readied himself as the carts came to a stop, and suddenly one of the men cried out:

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" Hadvar took in his filthy hair and tattered clothes that were a size too big, pitied him quietly: not a rebel, but judging by his guilty posture and sharp, darting eyes, he was a criminal no less.

"Face your death with some courage, thief," an armour-clad Stormcloak replied. He sounded weary, possibly having had to endure the man's complaining for some time, but the voice was familiar: it was that of his childhood friend, Ralof. Hadvar's jaw tightened.

Ulfric Stormcloak, the perpetrator of this bloody mess, was the first to step off the cart, followed by the still-fretting thief.

"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!" he persisted. Ralof descended the cart behind him along with two other Nords, a man and a woman who hung back behind the group and seemed hesitant in their movements. Hadvar made a note to keep an eye on them.

"Step towards the block when we call your name," the Captain ordered. "One at a time!"

Ralof sighed loudly and muttered something about the Empire and lists. Behind him, the reluctant pair were whispering to one another. The man was incredibly large, even for a Nord, standing a good foot or two above his companion. The woman was well built, but that was all he could discern about either of them, for they wore heavy green cloaks and hoods that concealed their features. They never looked up from the ground. Their behaviour and state of dress were so unusual that there was little Hadvar could do to suppress his own curiosity.

An expectant quiet fell: Hadvar's cue to begin going down the ledger.

"Ulfric Stormcloak: Jarl of Windhelm," he called out.

The shamed Jarl, bound and gagged but with his head held high, obediently made his way to the block.

"Ralof of Riverwood," Hadvar hoped that his voice conveyed the disappointment he felt in his former friend. Ralof trudged towards the block, locking eyes with Hadvar for a moment: within he found no trace of remorse, no silent pleas for forgiveness. The fond memories of their boyhood had been all but replaced by a burning, traitorous rage. Ralof spat at his feet as he passed him.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," Hadvar continued after a moment.

"No!" Lokir cried, stepping forward. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this! You're not going to kill me!"

He made a mad dash for the gate and the Captain hollered for the archers. Then he was down, an arrow between the shoulders, before anyone had time to draw in another breath.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the Captain demanded. The lot simply stared in response. Hadvar returned to his list, and it was then that he realised that the two Nords at the back of the group did not appear to be anywhere on it.

"Wait! You there," he jutted a finger in the pair's direction. "Step forward!"

The man kept protectively behind the woman as they complied, as if he felt that he could manage a final attempt to keep her from harm despite his hands being bound. Their features were still hidden from sight.

"Who are you?" Hadvar inquired. Neither said a word, and the Captain hissed impatiently beside him.

"Who _are_ you?" he tried again, harsher this time. Still, the pair remained silent.

"Remove their cloaks!" the Captain commanded. A troop marched forward, grasped the woman by the back of the neck, and forced her to her knees. The man growled and likely would have barrelled the soldier into the ground had another not immediately stepped forward and pressed a blade to his throat. Their disguises were torn away and Hadvar's suspicions were confirmed: these were no Stormcloaks.

Their skin was tanned, and their bodies were marked with scars and obscure tribal art. The clothes they wore were hastily stitched, comprised of deer skins, and had clearly been worn for days. If these two were involved with the rebel forces, or even natives of Skyrim, then Hadvar was a slaughterfish. These were travellers, and had simply been caught at the wrong part of the border at the worst possible time.

The woman kept her head bowed, shielding her face with her greasy red hair. Hadvar found himself unconsciously craning his neck to get a better look at her, but her large companion fixed him with a bold warning stare. He was her protector, no doubt: even when bound and facing death, if she did not want to show her face, he would probably die defending that very wish. If nothing else, Hadvar had to respect such fierce loyalty.

"Your names, Nords," the Captain insisted, stepping forward.

The man looked up, and his eyebrows knitted together thoughtfully.

"You are traitors," the Captain went on. She seemed to be addressing all of the prisoners now. Her voice rang against the walls, "and we would be content enough to put you down and leave your carcasses for the beasts. However, the ancient burial traditions of this land take precedence over the Legion's authority. Nords! Your names, so that your remains may be returned to your families once justice is served."

The large man spat at the ground.

"Our names, Imperial," he roared. "are sacred, and are our own. We would rather die in anonymity than have them soiled upon your arrogant tongues. And our remains belong neither to you, nor to the Empire, nor to Skyrim!"

Legionnaire and spectator alike stilled following the Nord's bold reply: he spoke eloquently, no doubt, but his Cyrodiilic was laced in the strangest accent any of the present company had ever heard. Hadvar himself, who had come across several tribal accents in his day, was at a loss to place its origins. Even the Captain was momentarily silenced in her surprise at the man's sophistication. The red-haired woman, however, remained quiet.

The Captain was the first to regain her composure.

"Will you express no remorse for your betrayal?" she demanded.

The man's determined expression faltered as a wide grin spread across it.

"Betrayal!" the man guffawed. "We are no more traitors to his foreign land than you would be to Valenwood, woman! The great tree of our blood and ancestry may begin here, but it here it does not end. Our business crossing the border has nothing whatsoever to do with your country's civil quarrels, whatever they may be."

They should have no choice but to let them go, Hadvar concluded. Or, at the very least, taken into custody for crossing the border illegally. Anything to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, and he could not help feeling drawn to these strange folk. He dared not let his admiration show on his face, lest his weakness fall under the Captain's sharp eye.

"Captain," Hadvar said, trying to hide the optimism in his voice. "What should we do? They're not on the list, and they clearly are not involved with the rebel forces...,"

The Captain's lips turned white and her face went taut with rage. Above all, she hated being proven wrong.

"Send them to the block," she ordered. She turned on her heel and marched toward the execution circle. Hadvar gaped after her.

"But, ma'am -,"

"That was an order, not a suggestion, soldier!" she barked. Hadvar sighed.

"I am sorry, kinsmen," he said softly to the pair kneeling before him. "I truly am. But at least you will die here, in your homeland."

The troops behind them hauled the pair to their feet and shoved them in the direction of the chopping block. As she stumbled past him, Hadvar finally glimpsed the woman's visage: almond-shaped, wild eyes as green as glass peered out of a tattooed face that was stretched over cheekbones pronounced enough to cut parchment. Her eyes were as intelligent as they were savage, and they regarded Hadvar with all of the practised wariness of a hunter.

The contact broke as abruptly as it began, and Hadvar spent the next several moments attempting to quell the plunging, empty feeling in his stomach that assaulted him.

The Captain joined General Tullius in the centre of the execution circle. A priestess clad in golden robes had entered the area some time during the interrogation in order to give the last rites to the condemned, and she stood beside the headsman with an enthusiasm that Hadvar found disturbing. He handed the ledger to a nodding troop who then ducked into the guard tower.

Hadvar went to stand before the execution block. He turned about just in time to catch the mysterious pair exchanging resigned looks and pressing their foreheads together in a quiet good-bye. Somewhere inside, Hadvar mourned for them. Being sentenced to a beheading for nothing more than skipping the checkpoint at the border was nothing short of criminal, and it sickened him that, even in uncertain times, cases of mistaken identity were regarded as unimportant. His earlier acceptance of the current lack of consideration for who went to the block came at him like a slap in the face, and for a moment Hadvar was disgusted with himself. He had half a mind to take the Captain aside to convince her to spare them, in favour of a prison sentence, when the General began to speak.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he began, staring into the eyes of the Jarl. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne! You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down! Restore the peace!"

Not a breath of silence had passed following the General's speech when a queer howl echoed somewhere in the distance: unmistakably beast-like, yet full of rage. The ground trembled gently beneath their feet. Then all was quiet.

"What _was_ that?" Hadvar heard himself asking.

"It's nothing," the General replied, though he appeared to be assuring himself more than anyone. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the Captain said. She jutted a finger at the priestess. "Give them their last rites."

Hadvar grimaced when the priestess clapped a tad too jovially before raising her arms above her head in praise.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius," she cried, "blessings of the Eight Divines upon you! For you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved - !"

"For the love of Talos!" a rebel interrupted, stomping impatiently towards the block. "Shut up! Let's get this over with."

Hadvar fought to suppress a chuckle as the priestess sneered and let her arms fall to her sides in defeat.

"As you wish," she snarled. The Stormcloak soldier stood proudly in front of the block, his head held as high as he could manage before the Captain pushed him onto his knees. As he exposed his neck beneath the shadow of the halberd, Hadvar could see tears beginning to well up in his eyes despite his earlier bravado. He was terrified. Nonetheless, he risked a final challenge:

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials! Can _you_ say the same?"

With that the halberd descended, and the head rolled away with a sickening thud upon the ground. The Captain kicked the corpse away with a triumphant flick of her boot, and Hadvar had to step aside to avoid standing in the blood pooling from the stump of neck.

"You Imperial bastards!" a Stormcloak woman wailed. Cries for justice and loyalty to the Empire from rose up from the villagers in retaliation.

The Captain held up her hands for silence, and then her eyes fell on the foreigners.

"Next!" she commanded, gesturing in their direction. "The Nord woman in the skins!"

The lump in Hadvar's throat tightened when the strange sound rang out yet again - and closer this time.

"There it is again," he supplied needlessly. "Did you hear that?"

No longer patient with the delays, if she ever had been, she shot Hadvar a deadly look and growled:

"I said. Next. _Prisoner_."

The woman spared one last glance to her companion, who smiled wanly.

"To the block, prisoner," Hadvar instructed gently. "Nice and easy."

As she walked to her death, her companion's robust voice shattered the anxious silence.

"Hail!" he bellowed. "Hail to Morag the Howler! Eldest daughter of Hrolfr the Younger, who went valiantly to Sovngarde in defence of our lands against the werewolf! May you feast and sing forever, lady, in the mighty Halls among the brave!"

The woman, Morag, knelt over the block with a small smile on her face, and from that moment on the world appeared to move in slow-motion: as the headsman poised his halberd, a shadow as black as night and swift as lightning passed over them. The Captain became alarmed and called out for the sentries to report what they could see.

Then chaos descended upon them in the form of the mightiest beast their ancient world had ever seen.

"Dragon!" a woman shrieked. A deafening roar from the beast made the clouds blacken and churn like the anguish in Hadvar's stomach. Before he could stop himself, he had unsheathed his sword and placed himself uselessly between the dragon and Morag - now paralysed with fear upon the chopping block.

"Guards!" Tullius hollered. "Get the townspeople to safety!"

As if in a deliberate counter-attack, a burst of acidic fire shot forth from the beast's maw and engulfed a fleeing man, who collapsed to the ground a living, thrashing inferno. His horrific keening was drowned out in the panic, and soon he was reduced to a charred lump and trampled underfoot.

Hadvar called out to whomever was nearby to gather and seek shelter, and he had turned about to release Morag from her binds when he realised that she had disappeared at some point during the commotion. He swore and scanned the crowd, motioning for the villagers he had gathered to take cover in the nearest stable building. The General began calling for the soldiers to form a unit, and the last thing Hadvar saw before a sheet of flame obscured his view was Ralof, Morag, and the hulking Nord man fleeing into the protection of the guard tower.

* * *

_Read and review, darlings. x _


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